


what you don't confess

by sabinelagrande



Series: Sundown [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: BDSM Scene, Dom Crowley (Good Omens), Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Dungeon (BDSM), M/M, Possessive Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Praise Kink, Sub Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 16:56:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19749901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: He blinks as hard as he can, lifting up his sunglasses briefly to rub his eyes, but Aziraphale continues to be standing there, in a dark hallway, in a dungeon.





	what you don't confess

Crowley's been a fixture in a certain kind of scene for a while now. He's been a fixture in many scenes; he's quite good at it, actually, knowing where the party is. This particular kind of party is one with props, costumes, and a lot of public nudity, which makes it tops in Crowley's book. Tonight, he's hitting up his favorite hot spot for it; there's no sign on the door, just a buzzer, and Crowley presses it for slightly longer than is necessary.

The door opens halfway, revealing a large woman in a black t-shirt that reads SECURITY. Her face is set in a no-bullshit expression, but it cracks when she sees Crowley.

"Looks like the fun's here," she says.

Crowley gives her air kisses. "Point me at it."

He breezes through the front room without visiting the man who's taking entrance fees, because paying covers is for mortals. He walks past, parting the thick velvet curtains and stepping out into the club.

In here, the music tends towards a thumping bass line, and the clientele tend toward leather goods, when they don't skip the middle man and go skyclad. Black and red are the predominant colors, giving the place the look of what humans think of Hell, which has as much to do with real Hell as a sexy nurse does with a real medical professional.

If you need it spelled out for you more, you're reading the wrong story.

Crowley's interests in this arena are not precisely sadistic. He doesn't like it because enthusiastic people are being artistically hurt, though it's a bonus. What appeals to him is the sense of glorious wrongness, the utter and wholehearted embrace of what is sinful. A lot of what they're doing isn't sin at all- the Bible is mum on the topic of consensual flogging- but the raw, pure feeling that bad is good permeates the air, a sweet balm to his demonic nature that comes at such a low cost to the humans involved. 

Crowley is noticed immediately on his entrance. He's slept with half a dozen people in this room and seen all but three of them naked, but only one of them is bold enough to approach him immediately. She's a curvy woman in a low-cut dress, a single white rose in her curled black hair. 

"Mister Crowley," Carolyn purrs; he hasn't bothered to change the name, since they all assume he named himself after that fucking upstart Alistair. "So nice to see you again."

"And you as well, my dear," Crowley says. He offers her his arm, and she takes it gracefully.

He only gets a few feet farther in before a man in a leather harness and not much else sidles up to him. "I didn't know you were coming, sir," he says.

"Well, this is shaping up to be quite the night already," Crowley says. He offers the man his other arm, and the three of them parade in.

What Crowley does in the club is beside the point.

Late in the evening, Crowley struts down the hall to the bathroom for a quick wash. He's pleasantly sore in several areas and wearing underwear that he's fairly certain doesn't belong to him, but that's to be expected, really. He's not paying much attention to what's going on in the back on his way; there are three small rooms for the discerning patron, each of them with a flag signalling that they're occupied. Crowley has never actually been in them for longer than a quick look, because back rooms completely defeat the purpose of exhibitionism.

On his return from the bathroom, one of the doors stands open. This is not particularly unusual, as people cycle in and out of the rooms over the course of the night. It is, however, impossible that Crowley sees what he sees there, which looks for all the world like Aziraphale.

He blinks as hard as he can, lifting up his sunglasses briefly to rub his eyes, but Aziraphale continues to be standing there, in a dark hallway, in a dungeon.

Aziraphale is, of course, wearing what he refers to as winter white, but in the dim light, he might as well be glowing. He's talking to someone who's still in the room, and he has a pleasant smile on his face, one that looks fond and satisfied.

Then he turns, coming face to face with Crowley.

"Er," Aziraphale says.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley says, like there's any fucking doubt, because he just can't think of anything else to say.

A pile of boxes, previously unseen, come tumbling from their spot on the wall, conveniently blocking Crowley's path. Aziraphale uses this miraculous event as an opportunity to literally run in the other direction.

An attractive young man sticks his head out from the door Aziraphale emerged from. "Mister Fell?" he says, looking puzzled. He sees Crowley. "Hey, did you see a white-haired guy go past?"

Crowley produces a hundred pound note from his jacket, holding it up between two fingers. "Tell me why he was here," he says.

The man gives Crowley a dark look. "No fucking way," he says. "I'm not a fucking narc, and you can't just-"

Crowley waves his hand and the human's face goes blank, because actually, he can.

"What is he here for?" Crowley demands, pushing him back through the door. The room isn't anything to write home about, a vinyl couch, a pair of suspension cuffs, and a throne-like chair, though Crowley finds it suspicious that there's a wall scroll at perfect glory hole height.

"He likes it when I stroke his hair and tell him he's a good boy," the man says absently.

"Ew," Crowley says, pulling a face. "Do you at least beat him first?"

"No," he says. "He doesn't even take his clothes off. It's a shame, really. He's so cute. He's my fave, the little noises he makes-"

"Fucking shut it," Crowley growls. "How long have you been coming here?"

"Not long," he says. "Only since Orsini's closed."

Crowley remembers the name very faintly, but London's a big place. He has a million more questions to ask, but he hasn't decided which ones he actually wants the answers to. He has a vague shape of what's going on, and this guy isn't going to know what Crowley really, really wants to know.

Time to say his goodbyes and make a plan.

Crowley hesitates before leaving; he rolls his eyes, mostly at himself. "When you wake up you'll remember that Mister Fell got an urgent phone call and dashed out making loads of apologies. That Mister Fell, always so polite."

He walks out and slams the door behind him.

It sticks in his head, because of course it does. He has just learned something so viciously improbable that he's not even sure how it's staying in his head. There is no way Aziraphale is kinky, even though six thousand years is plenty of time to pick up a kink or two. Aziraphale gets his kicks from a nice cup of tea and a good book; nothing about the world almost ending has changed that. He is still fundamentally both brilliant and wretchedly predictable, and the idea that Crowley has been so wrong about him just gives him a headache.

This is all going to turn out to be some great misunderstanding, and they're going to have a laugh about it. Except that Aziraphale isn't calling, not even to give a panicked explanation. They have been through too much for even something as preposterous as this to drive them apart, so Crowley's not going to let it go, even if Aziraphale actually gets his kicks from being praised. 

He's kind of offended on principle, because the least interesting thing about Aziraphale is that he's good.

So Crowley turns up at the shop just as Aziraphale is closing up. Aziraphale doesn't run this time, though Crowley'd been prepared for such an eventuality. Instead, he opens the door, letting Crowley in before he flips the closed sign and locks up.

"I refuse to talk to you about this sober," Aziraphale says, once they're alone.

Crowley holds up a frankly oversized bottle of whiskey. "I know."

When most of the bottle is gone, Crowley is draped over the couch with his head hanging off the arm, looking at Aziraphale upside down even though it's giving him a headache. Aziraphale is sitting upright at his desk, but he's sort of listing to one side.

"We were gonna talk," Crowley says.

"Probably," Aziraphale says.

Crowley rolls over, putting his hands on the arm of the sofa and resting his chin on them. "So talk."

"I don't know what you saw," Aziraphale says.

"You were in a hallway," Crowley says. "With a young man who told me everything."

"Everything?" Aziraphale says, looking dismayed.

" _Everything_ ," Crowley says. "He told me all about how you like to be-" his nose wrinkles- "good."

Aziraphale swallows. "And what else?"

"And that you don't even get _naked_ ," Crowley says. "What the _fuck_." He drags himself up into a seated position, though it turns into a sprawl. "The party doesn't even start until nobody has their clothes on."

"What were you doing there, anyway?" Aziraphale asks.

"Two subs at the same time," Crowley says. He points an unsteady but accusatory finger. "Don't be distracting." He narrows his eyes. "Is this about Armageddon?"

"What?" Aziraphale says, like he doesn't understand the question. "Oh, with Heaven and everything. No, I've been at this a while."

"So wanting to be good has nothing to do with how you've been gently drifting from the shore for six thousand years?" Crowley prods, making an illustrative wave motion.

Aziraphale throws up his hands. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"Neither do I," Crowley says, stumped.

"I like the whole business because it's _honest_ ," Aziraphale says.

"And here I was liking it because it was a," Crowley says, waving his hand around. "A magnificent fiction."

"That's window-dressing," Aziraphale says. "Most of it's not _really_ sin, anyway."

"Except all the fornication," Crowley says, very carefully and deliberately pronouncing the word.

"Oh, who's not fornicating these days," Aziraphale says, gesturing with the bottle. 

"Can't walk down the street for bumping into a fornicator," Crowley says.

Aziraphale has realized his glass is empty and mustered enough brain cells to fill it up again.

"Why didn't you just come to me?" Crowley asks, sounding a little plaintive.

Aziraphale drops the bottle.

It's not a miracle that the bottle doesn't break; it doesn't break because it's made of thick glass and there's a rug under the chair. Aziraphale snatches it up, holding it protectively. "I beg your pardon?"

"What's wrong with me, hey?" Crowley demands. "I am an _excellent_ dom."

"That doesn't mean you have what I want," Aziraphale says, downing his whiskey and pouring himself another.

"You think I can't be," Crowley says, looking for a word. "Considerate? I can pet hair and say things all day long."

"You've never said anything nice in your life," Aziraphale says, without conviction.

"Oh, I've whispered a lot of things into a lot of ears, angel," Crowley says.

"All _poison_ and _treachery_ ," Aziraphale sniffs.

"You catch more flies with honey," Crowley says. Still, he knows he's got Aziraphale's interest. He shakes his head. "I can't tell you you're good. Can't do it. Even if I could, it'd frustrate me to no end. But," he says, before Aziraphale can protest, "I could say other things."

"Such as?" Aziraphale asks.

"You've got a lot going for you that's not pegged to one side or the other." Aziraphale looks at him expectantly, and Crowley smirks. "I can't just give away the milk before you buy the cow."

"But what do _you_ want?" Aziraphale asks.

"Me?" Crowley says, feeling caught out.

"You don't do what you do for philan- altr- for other people's benefit," Aziraphale slurs. "Do you really think I could do the kind of debauchery you like from the people you go around with?"

"You could be _way_ more debauched than you are now," Crowley says, and Aziraphale frowns. "I like plenty of things that don't even involve sex in public."

"Can you be serious?" Aziraphale says.

"I am being serious," Crowley insists.

"Then don't be so shifty," Aziraphale returns. "If that's even a thing you can do."

Crowley reaches over, grabbing the bottle out his hand. He tosses the cap aside and chugs what's left. Aziraphale is staring at him warily, but Crowley is mostly trying not to panic over the idea that he's about to say what he's about to say.

"I want you," Crowley says.

Aziraphale, who's too drunk to hear it the way Crowley said it, frowns in confusion.

"It's me and you," Crowley says. "It's _always_ been me and you, right since the Garden. It'll be me and you after everything else is gone." He holds up a hand. "Don't talk. Let me talk. I don't know if I can say this again." Aziraphale sits back. "But I want you to be _mine_. I want to keep you. I _like_ you."

"Oh," Aziraphale breathes.

Crowley puts the heel of his hand to his forehead. "Shouldn't have said that."

"No, I think you should have," Aziraphale says, sounding a bit dazed. "What would you need me to do?"

"What?" Crowley asks, confused.

"That's just step one," Aziraphale says. "I'm not just going to give you free rein over me, even if I'm-" he swallows- "all yours."

"You could come to the dungeon with me," Crowley says. He knows Aziraphale is going to push him for more, so he keeps going. "I could introduce you to the people I know, and they'd all know we were-" he waves a hand- "a thing."

"How would they know?" Aziraphale asks. "Do you want me to go around in a collar?"

"Maybe a little collar," Crowley says, feeling a bit sheepish, or at least self-conscious. "A gold one would be perfect."

"I would have thought you'd pick black," Aziraphale says.

"Doesn't go with your outfit," Crowley says. "And fuck knows trying to get you to wear anything in a darker color scheme is a lost cause." He sighs. "I want to be there to do what you want done to you. I don't want you to go to anyone else." He should have stopped talking five minutes ago, but what's done is done. "Also sex. I think we should have sex. If you like sex, that is, I know it's weird for angels."

"This is a lot to think about," Aziraphale says.

"I know, I know, I know," Crowley says. "This is not how this should have gone at all."

Aziraphale gets a look on his face like he has an idea. He turns back to his desk, shifting things around until he finds a blank piece of paper and a pen. "Here's what's going to happen," he says, holding them both up. "I'm going to write a day and a time on this piece of paper. If you remember this conversation and still want to go through with it, meet me in the usual spot."

"You better write it down twice," Crowley says. "You might not remember this conversation either."

"Good thinking," Aziraphale says. He carefully writes the information twice, tearing the page in half and giving one side to Crowley.

Crowley pulls out his phone and takes a slightly blurry picture of the paper. "Insurance," he says to Aziraphale's questioning look. "I think I better sober up and get out of here."

"I'm going to stay drunk and brood," Aziraphale says.

"I'd do that too if I didn't need to drive," Crowley says. Crowley has no particular feelings about drunk driving, but Aziraphale does. The sucking sensation as the alcohol leaves his body is unpleasant as always, and his mouth tastes like an old sock, but he's clearheaded enough to be deeply remorseful about all of it. "I'll be seeing you," he says, and he leaves before Aziraphale can say anything else to him.

In the car, he bangs his head on the steering wheel a few times before tearing off through the London streets.

Crowley doesn't actually read the piece of paper until he's back in his flat; this is an oversight, because Aziraphale could easily have written "tenth of May, 2071". Instead, Crowley is surprised to see that the date selected is just two days away. He's sure this will give Aziraphale time to change his mind a dozen times, but he himself will almost certainly do the same.

This is what he thinks, anyway. Alcohol is supposed to be liquid courage, but the more he sobers up, the more his resolve grows. Crowley's resolve is literally the stuff of legend, and it has him marching directly to a park bench at three in the afternoon, where Aziraphale is not waiting.

Crowley's a little heartbroken until he realizes that he, despite all his best efforts and his very nature, is ten minutes early. He sits and watches the ducks and, strangely enough, doesn't panic.

Aziraphale sits down beside him.

"You came," Crowley says.

"So did you," Aziraphale says.

"So you have a praise thing," Crowley says.

"And you have an ownership thing," Aziraphale says.

Crowley almost protests, but he makes himself stop. "I suppose I do."

"What do you propose to do about it?" Aziraphale says, looking at the ducks.

"I thought I might ask you to come back to my place and let me talk your ear off," Crowley says.

Aziraphale turns to him, smiling, and even though it seems hesitant, it's like the sun dawning. "Perhaps we should."

"Come along," Crowley says. "In the car you can tell me what not to say."

Not too much time later, they're standing in Crowley's flat. Aziraphale doesn't like it and he never has, but it seemed neutral, somehow, less fraught than doing this in the shop. "How do you like it?" Crowley asks, putting a cautious hand on Aziraphale's hip.

"You can sit in the chair," Aziraphale says, shrugging out of his coat and setting it aside.

"Where are you gonna be?" Crowley asks. "If it's the floor, you should grab a pillow off the bed. This concrete is hell."

"Ah," Aziraphale says. "Good thinking."

Crowley sits down in the chair, arranging himself to look more authoritative than menacing; it's a very thin line, a difference of only slight degrees of slouch. Aziraphale returns, and he lets out a short, determined sigh before putting the pillow down. He almost immediately sinks to his knees between Crowley's legs, like he's doing it before he can back out. Crowley's okay with that, as long as it means he doesn't.

"Are you ready?" Crowley asks, and Aziraphale nods. Crowley reaches out, running his fingers through Aziraphale's hair. He never wears it another way if he can get away with it, unlike Crowley; these days, he looks fashionable.

"Your hair is so soft," Crowley says, taking the opening. "You take such special care of yourself, don't you? You should be proud of it." He swirls his fingers through the white strands, and Aziraphale sighs. "That's it, sweetheart. Just sit there and listen to me. Rest yourself a while. You deserve it."

Aziraphale shuts his eyes; he rests his cheek against the inside of Crowley's knee, just listening quietly. He still feels stiff, but Crowley's going to fix that. He's not going to stop until Aziraphale is relaxed and calm.

"What a smart boy," Crowley says. Calling him boy isn't the hard part; he's several millennia old, but it's a convention of the genre. "So clever. You do everything just right." His fingers find the back of Aziraphale's neck, and he rubs along the muscles there, working out the tension. Aziraphale lets out a little sigh, and Crowley feels him slip under just a little more.

"You take care of your books, too," Crowley says. "They know it, you know? You wouldn't let a single one of them fall into the wrong hands. You're so conscientious and precise." He strokes Aziraphale's hair again. "A faithful steward, if you know what I mean." Aziraphale's lip quirks a little bit. "Such a thoughtful, attentive boy."

Aziraphale makes a little noise of contentment, and Crowley realizes that he himself is way more into this than he expected to be. He was, full disclosure, doing it out of a sense of possession, of not wanting someone else's hands on his things. But he's here now, and Aziraphale looks so peaceful, so content. Something is deeply satisfying about knowing he made Aziraphale like that, when Aziraphale needed it so badly.

Maybe Crowley needed it too.

He doesn't speak for a little while, just keeps his hand moving, petting Aziraphale gently. "And beautiful, do you know that?" Crowley says. He sighs. "The things I could do to you."

"Oh?" Aziraphale says, not opening his eyes.

"I'd lay you down in a nice soft bed and treat you right," Crowley says. "I wouldn't let you get up again until you were a satisfied mess. I'd make sure it was so hot for you that you'd never want anything else but me." Aziraphale being right between his legs is making this thought more pressing than it normally would be, but Crowley wouldn't take advantage of him like that. "You're going to love every second of it, mark my words."

Aziraphale hums contentedly, putting one of his arms around Crowley's leg. Crowley runs his finger along the shell of Aziraphale's ear, and Aziraphale shivers. "Someday I'm going to take you away, so it can be just me and you, no distractions," Crowley says. "I don't know how far we'd have to go, but I'll go there with you. You deserve to get away. You're so kind to everyone, and it's time for someone to make sure you're seen to as well."

"Why?" Aziraphale says, and Crowley is instantly alarmed by the sudden shift in his tone.

"What?" Crowley says.

"Why would you do all those nice things for me if I'm not-" Aziraphale breaks off, sounding distraught. "If I haven't earned them?"

There's only one way Crowley can see pulling out of this. If he tries to walk it back, to justify, it's just not going to work; Aziraphale is going to talk himself out of the entire thing. It's going to end up in pieces if Crowley doesn't tie it all together, but it's time.

Crowley bends down, speaking into Aziraphale's ear. "Because you belong to me," he says, his tone silky but backed with steel. "You're going to earn it by staying right beside me, where you're supposed to be. I've been through too much to let you go. You're a catch, angel, and no one deserves you but me."

"I'm yours," Aziraphale says, sounding a little amazed, and Crowley's breath catches.

He realizes then that there are tears on Aziraphale's cheeks. He runs his thumb through them gently. "Why are you crying, my dear?"

Aziraphale laughs, the sound a little choked. "I don't know," he says. "It feels good." He shakes his head. "I just love you so much."

Six thousand years have led up to this point, since an angel shielded a demon from a rainfall. Everything, in its own way, has being moving towards this, even as it ebbed and flowed. It has survived even Armageddon, coming out the other side stronger. But in this moment, it feels light as air, something so obvious that it's gone without comment, just a few words of confirmation.

"Love you too," Crowley says, pressing his lips to the top of Aziraphale's head.

\--

Things go differently when Mister Crowley and Mister Fell show up together. There are a few looks of confusion, particularly directed at the line of gold that cuts across Mister Fell's throat, but that confusion is cleared up by the way that Mister Crowley won't keep his hands off him.

Crowley basks in the waves of jealousy, a delicious treat. Everyone else has had their turn, and if they missed the bus, too bad. This goes for anyone who didn't take their chance with Crowley, but what's really enjoyable to Crowley is the people who look Aziraphale up and down and then give Crowley dirty looks.

If Crowley liked to eat, he'd say it was as sweet as honey. Aziraphale does like to eat, but would not describe it in this manner.

"Do you at least like to watch?" Crowley asks.

"I like watching," Aziraphale protests. "Especially the ones that look like they're enjoying it." He sighs. "They're just so happy."

"Is this another one of those things where we look at the same thing and see two things?" Crowley says.

"I think that's most things," Aziraphale says. 

"Mister Fell?" a voice says from behind them. Crowley turns to see the young man who Aziraphale literally ran out on, looking at the two of them consideringly.

"Jacob," Aziraphale says, smiling. "How good to see you." He gives Crowley a look until Crowley relents and stops glowering.

"Sorry for what happened the other day," Crowley mutters. "I was a dick."

"Hey, no worries," Jacob says. "I thought you were a reporter or a cop. Jealous boyfriends I can deal with."

"He wasn't my boyfriend," Aziraphale corrects.

"At the time," Crowley says pointedly.

"I'm glad if you're glad," Jacob says, giving Aziraphale a smile but not reaching out to touch him.

Crowley gets suddenly hip-checked, pushing him into Aziraphale's side. He's about to lash out when he realizes it's Carolyn, who he'd only sort of forgotten about.

"You broke my heart," she says goodnaturedly, leading a very attractive older woman on a leash.

"Never said I wouldn't," Crowley replies pleasantly.

"You have one in every port, don't you?" Aziraphale says, after she's gone.

"Nah," Crowley says. "Just got the one, really." Aziraphale ducks his head. "Unless you reconsider the thing with-"

"No," Aziraphale says firmly.

"Be that way," Crowley says, but he smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> There is a sequel to this! Please see [feeling no pain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19786564) for the next bit.


End file.
